


when the rain comes

by shoebox_addict



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 16:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20138722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: It struck him suddenly, a memory that he’d nearly forgotten -- the image of them both standing on the wall, and Aziraphale raising one wing to shield him as it began raining. He froze, lost in the recollection of this moment, until Aziraphale asked if something was the matter.





	when the rain comes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists entirely because it was raining the other night, and I couldn't stop thinking about how cozy Aziraphale's bookshop must be in the rain. Hope you enjoy, comments are welcome.

The bookshop always felt cosy, but it was at its cosiest when rain was falling softly on London outside. Whenever it rained -- and it rained often in London -- Crowley felt a strong pull toward the bookshop, no matter where he happened to be at the moment. There were times when he was sitting in his flat, watching some crap telly, and rain began to fall. He could sometimes manage to ignore it for fifteen minutes, but eventually he phoned Aziraphale to see if he was up for a visit. He always was.

Sometime in the 1980s, while drinking wine on Aziraphale’s couch, Crowley realized that this urge of his might be traced all the way back to Eden. It struck him suddenly, a memory that he’d nearly forgotten -- the image of them both standing on the wall, and Aziraphale raising one wing to shield him as it began raining. He froze, lost in the recollection of this moment, until Aziraphale asked if something was the matter. 

There was another moment, in 1942, that Crowley had most certainly not forgotten. During the war, it seemed like boundaries went lax as the city came together to defend itself in the Blitz. People spoke to each other more on the street and on the tube, and Crowley often saw unlikely pairs of people exchanging stories of woe or small mercies. Aziraphale became incredibly open and warm to him during those wartime years. That was when he began spending more time at the bookshop. 

On one evening in particular, bombs were falling on London along with a steady rain. Aziraphale was pacing by the windows near his desk, visibly shaking each time a blast sounded somewhere in the city. After one particularly loud explosion, Aziraphale let out a small whimper and sank into his desk chair, hands clasped together. Crowley could see his lips moving, his being glowing ever so slightly. He was using every last bit of his ethereal energy to protect the bookshop, to protect them. 

When, at long last, the all clear siren wailed, Aziraphale nearly collapsed under the weight of his own exhaustion. Crowley helped him to the couch, where he lay down and let out a long sigh, one hand on his forehead. Crowley turned to leave, to let him rest, but Aziraphale grabbed his wrist. 

“Stay with me,” he’d said. “Please.” 

As far back as he could remember, at least as far back as ol’ Shakespeare, Crowley had never been able to refuse a request from Aziraphale. He’d shrugged off his jacket and lain beside Aziraphale on the couch, which subtly widened to accommodate them both. He kept his back to Aziraphale, afraid of what he might do if he could see the angel’s face. Aziraphale moved in close, head against his shoulder and chest against his back. He could feel each breath the angel took as he drifted to sleep. Crowley, having recently slept for nearly eighty years, was awake all night. 

In the morning, a gentle rain was falling still, and the bookshop was dark. Crowley had shifted onto his back during the night, and when Aziraphale stirred he froze. He considered pretending he was asleep, but then Aziraphale was looking down at him, propped up on one elbow. The expression on his face was beatific, a soft smile and even softer eyes. Before Crowley knew what was happening, Aziraphale was kissing him and his entire body felt suffused with an otherworldly warmth. 

After that night, they spent the rest of the war largely in the bookshop, huddled against the horrors the humans had thought up all on their own. There were more soft kisses, and even more than that. But then came V-E Day, and a cloud seemed to lift from London and from the world. Everything went back to normal, and Aziraphale reverted back to his fussy self, who wanted to maintain the boundaries of their respective sides. It was as though it had never happened. 

But that was long ago, and amends had long since been made. Now the apocalypse had passed, and Crowley found that he appreciated absolutely everything more than he had before. Just a week after they averted disaster and successfully got their respective head offices off their backs, Crowley was lecturing his plants when he noticed drops of rain on the windows of his flat. He paused and felt the old pull in his bones. A second later, his plants were shivering with relief that they'd been forgotten as Crowley hurried to the telephone.

"I was hoping you'd call," said Aziraphale, as soon as he picked up.

Crowley spluttered. "How did you know it was me?"

"My dear boy, it's raining," said Aziraphale. "And we haven't seen each other in at least a week. So you needn't ask, just come over here and help me drink this lovely vintage Adam seems to have gifted me."

Crowley didn't waste time musing on how or why an eleven-year-old boy would know what constituted good wine. He simply assured Aziraphale he would be over soon, and then went downstairs to fire up the Bentley. 

Aziraphale was waiting for him, and it was a very good wine. After they'd drunk approximately two bottles of the stuff, Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a stare that made him want to sink into the couch cushions and never come out again. But instead he pushed his dark glasses up his nose and stared back, pretending he wasn't frightened.

"Something to say?" he asked.

"You know, I was thinking about the war the other day," said Aziraphale.

Crowley let out a long, low breath. "Angel, we've been around for an eternity, I'm going to need you to narrow things down. Can I get an era, at least?"

"The last war to touch London," said Aziraphale. "You know, with the Nazis."

Crowley took a nervous gulp of his wine. "Yeah. Hard to forget that one."

"Well, my dear, I think I was rather unfair to you back then. And after you'd saved those books and all."

"Not sure what you're getting at," said Crowley, trying to appear unconcerned.

"I'm sure you are," Aziraphale insisted. "We spent nearly the whole war right here, in this bookshop. Don't tell me you've forgotten."

Crowley kneaded his forehead; he couldn’t think straight after all that wine, and he couldn’t imagine why the angel was bringing up such ancient history. Nevermind that remembering that time caused a very annoying ache in his chest. Why did they need to discuss this? It had all been swept away by hundreds of lunches, theatre dates, lifts home in the Bentley, and evenings spent drinking and laughing. What more could be said? 

“Listen,” said Aziraphale, who was suddenly sitting right next to Crowley on the couch. 

“Fucking hell,” Crowley exclaimed, jerking backward. 

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, reaching out to touch Crowley’s knee. “For scaring you, and for that business after the war.”

“I don’t--”

“Oh, come off it,” said Aziraphale, bristling. “We’ve been through so much, and I...I don’t want to pretend any longer. I’m trying to be honest with you. Can you be honest with me?”

Crowley gaped at him, unsure of what to say. Aziraphale had never, ever been this direct with him, and it was rather throwing him for a loop. They were venturing into uncharted waters; if they could talk openly about this, what else might spill from their lips by accident? 

“I can try,” he said, the words closer to a croak than his usual drawl.

Aziraphale pursed his lips but pressed on. “Although those years were very frightening, obviously, I look back on them fondly now. I, well, I enjoyed spending time with you.”

Crowley struggled to keep his face in check. He was glad for his dark glasses, without which Aziraphale might know just how much it meant to hear him say that. “Well, I...I was grateful for the company, certainly.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, honestly. I know I’ve been a fool for several millennia, but I’m trying to make up for it now, and you’re behaving like a child. The apocalypse has come and gone, and I haven’t heard from Heaven since we put on our little show. I...I think I can speak freely now, at last.”

“Speak...what do you mean, speak freely?” said Crowley, picking up his wine glass so he had something to do with his hands. 

Aziraphale fidgeted on the couch, hands in his lap. “I’ve had to hide for so long, my dear. You...well, you can come over here whenever you like, and you’re always saying such...well, anyway, you could always pass it off as tempting. I didn’t have that luxury.” 

“I understand,” said Crowley, jaw clenched. “I’ve always understood that, angel. Don’t forget, I know how easily your side will throw someone out.” 

Aziraphale looked at him, and then quickly looked down at his lap. “Well, indeed. So you see my predicament. But, it seems that is no longer the case. Of course, I don’t know how long this will last, so I want to say something.”

Something small in Crowley’s chest began to awaken, something that had slumbered for many years. It had never disappeared, but only shrunk out of sight so as not to cause too much pain. Now, at the barest sign of hope, it returned, and Crowley wanted to hide it away again. Aziraphale was right -- who knew how long this would last? Who knew how long their bosses would leave them be? Why start something that would only need to end? 

“I love you, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. The bookshop stood in complete silence in the wake of this declaration, so suddenly revealed after years lurking nearby. 

Crowley gaped at him, a dozen emotions battling for dominance somewhere beneath his sternum. Obviously he’d been waiting ages to hear this, but now that it was out in the open he was afraid to even acknowledge it. Could he simply toss his wine glass to the floor and run out of the bookshop? Would Aziraphale ever let him return? At the moment, Aziraphale was staring expectantly at him, chest heaving and hands trembling. He was waiting for a response, and Crowley blurted out the first words that came to mind. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

Aziraphale sighed and rolled his eyes. “Good Lord, don’t make me say it again. Can’t you see how hard it was the first time?” 

Crowley could see that he was sweating, ever so slightly, at his hairline. There was something incredibly endearing about that, and Crowley realized that was what it all came down to -- the endearing details of their life together. In the end it was just this bookshop, a shared bottle of wine, and shelter from the rain outside. He had always come back to this, even when it had caused him heartbreak, and he knew deep down that he would never stop.

He let out a little huff of laughter. “Sorry, I...I’m a wanker, as you well know by now. I’ve had just as much trouble with this as you have. But now that you’ve said it...I love you too, angel.” 

Apparently that was all Aziraphale needed to hear. Gently, he took the wine glass from Crowley's hand and placed it on the nearby coffee table. Crowley watched, bemused, as Aziraphale shuffled closer to him on the sofa and reached out to cup his face with his hands. One smooth, soft thumb caressed the snake tattoo at his temple and he was undone. He most certainly made an embarrassing noise, but he didn't care. 

"I've wanted this," he said, choking out the words. "I've wanted it for so long."

"I did too, my dear," said Aziraphale, gazing at him. "I'm sorry it took so long."

Then he leaned forward and kissed him, and it was just as Crowley remembered. Having not done this with anyone else, he had no way of knowing whether kissing normally felt this good, or whether it had something to do with ethereal beings kissing occult beings. He could feel the glow in his chest, and anyone walking by on the rain-soaked streets would have thought some very strong candles were burning in the shop.

When they broke apart, Crowley gulped in a breath and nuzzled his nose against Aziraphale's cheek, pressed a kiss to his temple, not wanting to be too far from him. 

"I really am glad you called," said Aziraphale, grinning like a fool, fingers in Crowley's hair.

Crowley laughed and held him close. "Lucky it rained, I guess."

"Hmm, yes, lucky," said Aziraphale, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

Crowley pushed back and stared at the angel. "Are you telling me that you made it rain just to get me over here?"

Aziraphale shrugged, expression cool and calm as he reached for his glass. "Who can say, my dear? Climate change is causing all sorts of strange weather patterns. It seems like a perfectly timed storm to me, and nothing more."

"You really are a bastard," said Crowley, smiling fondly at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Aziraphale, but now he was smiling. "Come and lie down, I think the rain is making you batty."

Shaking his head, Crowley turned around and slid back into Aziraphale's embrace. He rested his head against Aziraphale's chest and sighed as the angel raked his fingers through his artfully tousled hair. It would be so easy to fall asleep like this, Crowley thought. And then he was drifting off to the sound of rain on pavement.

The rain outside grew stronger, falling in great sheets and making the interior of the bookshop that much cosier. If anyone had been paying attention, they might have noticed that not a single pedestrian had forgotten their umbrella. Even those who would have sworn they'd recently lost their umbrella found one in their bag at the first sign of drizzle. Women in heels found that pairs of Wellies had appeared beneath their desks at work. Men found surprisingly compact umbrellas slung onto their keychains. The rain fell all day and into the night, just to make sure that those who were cuddled up inside could stay that way for as long as possible.


End file.
